


Old Habits, Fresh Bruises

by Corvid_Knight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Earth C (Homestuck), M/M, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, dirk is working through this shit with jake's help, my tumblr is knight-of-heart-and-art, poor guy, self hate issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:16:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Dirk gets caught building and sparring battlebots when he doesn't have to. Jake handles the aftermath.





	Old Habits, Fresh Bruises

You know you fucked up the second that you hear the knock at the door. (Well, technically you knew you fucked up when you missed parrying the last strike, but this really cements it.)

There's a roughly eighty percent chance that it's Jake at the door. This probability jumps to one hundred before you manage to force yourself up off the floor, because you can hear him fumbling with the locked door. Jake's the only one other than Roxy and Dave who has the key, and they know enough to wait longer before they use theirs. But he doesn't wait, it never ever occurs to him that you might want him to wait— _need_ him to wait—and so when Jake English steps into your living room you're on your feet rather than lying on the floor, but you haven't had time enough to do more than glance around for the shirt you know is here somewhere. 

When he steps inside you stop trying to find it and look at him instead. You don't say anything, not yet, and what could you say? Explain why you're standing here with your shirt ripped and sweat-soaked, why your hair's a fucking mess and there's at least one visible bruise rising on your cheek? Deny that you're hurt at all? Ask him why the _fuck_ he didn't text you to tell you he was on his way? 

No, you really can't say any of that. 

Jake stares at you for a moment, his mouth opening and closing and opening again before anything comes out. Then, "Jesus Christ, Strider." The words come out quiet and mildly horrified, and you wince. There must be more than one bruise, then. That, or the cold wetness against your side is blood instead of sweat. Either one's possible. "You're—" 

"A mess?" You raise your hands and shoulders in a shrug, but you can't find a smile for him. _Damn._ "Yeah. I know." 

"I was going to say, 'a bit banged up,' but you're certainly a mess." He steps forward, then stops himself when you take a step back. Not that you could retreat any further—that one step puts your back against the wall. "Dirk..."

"Sorry." _Don't you run from him,_ the sensible part of your mind whispers. _He'll leave and not come back, and then where will you be?_

Two steps toward him, careful not to let the stiffness that's trying to slow your movements show. You don't think he knows just how fucked up you are yet; you'd like to keep it that way. 

"Sorry?" Jake comes forward—slowly, like he expects you to retreat—and reaches up to cup your face gently between his hands, turning your head so he can look you over. "Why—actually, never mind why, but I don't think you need to be sorry, not to me. What _happened_?" 

You close your eyes and just let him move you. "I didn't think you'd be by until later." Damn, but that actually _hurts_. You might've fucked up something in your neck when the second bot slammed you against the wall; it feels like there's a hot wire twisting just above your collarbone and just under the skin. 

"That's not even kind of an answer." Gentle. His words are still gentle even though his hands are working their way down your neck to your chest, probing for and finding more bruises, only easing off when you can't bite back a hiss of discomfort. "Dirk, what the bloody hell did you do to yourself?" 

"Well." You regret the words even as you say them. " _Technically,_ I didn't do it to myself. My bots aren't _me,_ you know. Not even really close enough simalcrums to pass at all, in skill or—or— _fuck,_ Jake, that _hurt_ —" 

"I'm sorry!" He pulls his hands away from your ribs and winces at the traces of blood on the tips of his fingers, green eyes wide and hurt when he looks back up at you. "I thought you didn't train with the bots anymore?" 

"Yeah." You shrug and bite your lip at the stab of pain that unfortunate movement provokes. "Old habits die hard."

"Dirk. It's been _years,_ come on. There's nothing for you to train for anymore." 

He's right; you _know_ he's right. This planet, this _universe_ , was designed to be safe. No drones. No one who'd want to come with swords and tridents. Even if there was, you're already as strong as you will ever be, and protected by the conditional immortality of godtier as well. 

That's not the point, though. That's not why you do it. 

"Old habits," you say again, even though that's both a lie and unhelpful.

Jake just stares at you for way too long. Then he shakes his head. "Fuck, Dirk." 

"I'm too disgusting for that and you know it." You gesture at yourself; there's no way for him to tell that you don't just mean the blood and sweat but something deeper and less likely to wash away. 

"You're not quite disgusting." Maybe he _does_ know what you mean, though. He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you around, pushing you towards the bathroom. "You're a bit of a mess, and you're taking a bath." 

"Shower."

"No, _bath._ You go somewhere else when you take showers; I can't talk to you." 

"I don't know why you want to." 

"To get information, of course." Jake shuts the door and slips past you to turn the water on, almost bouncing back to his feet as you turn to him and stepping closer to get a grip on the bottom of your shirt and pull it up over your head. "Even if you won't really talk to me, it'll tell me something." 

"Why would I not talk to you?" You could easily make this process very difficult for him. Then again, you're not six years old. You raise your arms and let him pull the shirt off, but push his hands away from your jeans in favor of doing it yourself. "I don't know if you can tell, but _you're_ not exactly the one I'm pissed at." 

"You get stupid and stoic when you're upset, so no, I _can't_ exactly tell, love." The endearment steals any bite that his tone imparts, and also makes you want to fucking _cry_. Instead of doing that, you finish stripping and turn to kneel down and turn the water off, trying and failing to bite back another pained hiss. "Dirk, are you—" 

"I've had worse. It's okay." The water's just at the edge of being too hot, the temperature you would've made it if you'd been the one to fill the tub. He knows you _so_ well. "I'm okay." 

"If you had pants on they'd be on fire, sweetheart." Jake rolls his eyes. At some point, probably while you were checking the water, he took off his shirt, but that's as far as he's gone and he's not moving to do any more. "Come on. In the tub."

"You coming in?" 

"Would it make you feel better?" 

"No." You answer before you actually think, and _hate_ yourself for it immediately. "Fuck. I—" 

"Come on. Get in." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Why? It's _me,_ Dirk; if anyone knows about needing to separate out different feelings, it should be me." He pats your shoulder, the one that's not marked with bruises, and gives you a very gentle push. "You're not offending me by saying no, idiot." 

The last word comes out as affectionate as when he called you love, when he called you sweetheart. It hurts almost as much as the sting of hot water on scrapes and cuts, as you finally do step into the tub and sit down. The pain makes you forget to watch your feet, and you slip, almost wipe out. If it wasn't for Jake grabbing your arm, you would've ended up hurting yourself worse. 

"Careful," he warns as he helps you down. 

"Yeah." You nod and force yourself to _not_ cling to him. That's very difficult. "I'm fine." 

"If you say that again I swear to _god_ I'll smack you." Jake's already got ahold of the soap when you reach for it, frowning at you as he fumbles with the cap. 

"You're god," you can't resist pointing out as he leans forward to pull the hairtie out of your ponytail. "I'm god. God is dead, Jake." 

"You're quite obviously not dead, love." 

"Not yet." 

"Oh?" He raises his eyebrows, squeezing out soap onto a washcloth and starting to carefully wipe at the injuries on your torso. "What would you mean by that, then?" 

"Nothing." _It's disappointing when I'm the one who kills the bots instead of the other way around._ "You don't have to do this." 

"Shush." As careful as he's being, the soap still burns. You bite your lip and close your eyes, instead of saying anything. "How often does this happen?" 

"It doesn't matter." _Every two weeks or so. More often than that, when I feel worse._

"That's not an answer, love." His hands leave your skin for a moment. Then he pours warm water over your body, sighing when you yelp in surprise. "But you've been sparring with the bots more than this once, haven't you?" 

"Doesn't matter." _You shouldn't know about it, Jake. I'm careful. I'm so fucking careful to make sure you don't know._

"Bloody hell, Dirk. Keep your eyes closed." He waits to make sure you do, before pouring another cupful of water over your head to wet your hair. You wipe water out of your eyes when he's done, blinking at him and wishing he didn't look so damn patient. "Is it always this bad?" 

"This isn't bad." _Fuck. Wrong response._

Jake sighs and shifts so he can reach up and start working shampoo into your hair. "So yes, it's usually worse, isn't it?" 

You could lie. "Yeah." Or not. 

"So Jane knows, doesn't she?" 

_Damn._ "She promised me she wouldn't tell you or Roxy, but yes, Jake, she knows. She uses her Life shit when I can't patch myself up or—" _Or when I can't bring myself to wipe the slate clean._ Don't you dare say that. 

"Or?" When you don't respond, he prompts you again. "Or, Dirk?" 

The wetness on your face is not completely from bathwater. 

"Dirk?" 

"There's soap in my eyes," you lie calmly, and Jake immediately fills the cup with water and starts rinsing the shampoo out of your hair. He has to know you're lying as soon as he finishes, because you're still crying as he wipes at your face with a dry washcloth, even if you keep your breathing slow and even enough that the tears are the only sign. 

"Oh, Dirk." Jake sighs and drops the washcloth on the floor, cupping your face in his hands and studying you for a long moment. (You think of what you know about troll romance, in that minute. You'd fit in well with them; there's enough pity on his face.) "Dirk, sweetheart, love, I'm sorry." 

"Don't—" 

He kisses you before you can tell him not to say that, first on your bruised cheek and then on your mouth. You taste soap a little bit, mixed in with the familiarity that's _him._

By the time he tries to pull away you've got your arms looped over his shoulders, and you want to resist letting him go. But he shushes you when you open your mouth, and kisses you again before extricating himself. 

"Close your eyes," he says again, and you do. The conditioner is cold as he smooths his fingers through your hair. "You're supposed to say when you need help."

"I don't." Liar, liar. Fucking liar. "I don't need help." 

"Double negative." 

"Don't you use grammar rules on me." 

"Then don't make me do it, love." _Love._ He means that, you don't need to see his face to know that he does love you, and now your eyes are leaking even though you have them closed. "I'm staying here for awhile." 

"You don't have to—" 

"Shut _up._ This isn't an argument, all right?" More water poured onto your head, Jake's hands running through your wet hair and pausing as he finds the lump of a bruise from an impact that made you see stars. "I worry about you—" 

"You shouldn't." 

"No?" 

"It's not like I can hurt myself in any way that lasts, Jake." 

"No?" 

"God is dead, but I'm not. Can't be." He's making you answer questions by just barely asking them, you realize. _Well, shit._

"That's not healthy, Dirk." One hand stays in your hair; the other moves away, and you hear the water start to drain away. "Trying to get yourself killed isn't healthy, whether or not it actually happens." 

"If I were trying to die, don't you think I'd have done it?" Stupid question. You _have_ done it, once that he knows about and several times that he doesn't. 

"I don't know that you _haven't_ done it." His fingers trace across the bruises on your chest—looking for fading death-scars? No. He knows that's not where you'd put a sword. "Would you tell me, if you had?"

Just answer. Don't think. "I don't know." It's a whisper. "I haven't, not for a long time." 

"Are you lying?" he asks quietly, and it breaks your fucking heart again. 

The first thing that comes out when you open your mouth is a harsh sob. You hate yourself so fucking much. 

Jake makes a soft, worried sound, and pulls at your shoulders until you lean towards the side of the tub so he can hold you. He's dry, or at least he was until he touched you; now your hair is dripping onto him and your face is pressed against his warm chest, getting both bathwater and tears on his skin. 

Fuck. _Fuck._

"I'm not lying," you manage. "Jake, I—" 

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I shouldn't have asked, Dirk, it's my fault. Shush now." 

He holds you and rocks you just a little, letting you cling to him and sob as the water finishes draining out of the tub. You feel like a little kid. You wish the wall of the tub wasn't between you and him. 

When you stop sobbing and start shivering, Jake lets go and pulls away. You have no fucking clue where in your cabinet he finds the towel he wraps you in, as he pulls you to your feet—it's huge and soft and pale orange, and you're entirely certain that you've never seen it before. 

(Chalk it down to Hope.) 

"Come on, love," he says, and you let him lead you to the bedroom. You sit down on the bed as he hunts around in the disarray of your closet, watching him for a minute or so before you adjust your towel and get up to find yourself jeans and one of _his_ shirts. 

And yes. You could wear sweatpants, you could wear your own shirt. But the jeans provide at least an illusion of you being fine and functional, and his shirt is purely, strangely comforting. 

Jake doesn't comment on your choices. He does take them out of your hands, and you let him help you dress because you're too tired to argue about it. 

When he's done, he steps back and opens his arms. 

You don't even think about it. You just step forward and let him wrap his arms around you, leaning into him and lowering your head to rest on his shoulder. 

"I'm right here," he murmurs into your ear. 

"Good," you whisper back—any louder and your voice will break. "Stay with me." 

"Of course." 

And he pulls you to lie down on the bed, not breaking contact even for a moment. Jake kisses your forehead, nestles up close to you, and you are almost immediately asleep.

* * *

You actually feel _worse_ when you wake up. Jake's still asleep, you can tell that from the pace of his breathing, but his eyes open as soon as you pull away and sit up. 

"Ouch." Well, the bruises have had time to finish coming into existence. You pull up your shirt curiously, wince at the abstract sunset spread across your ribs, and smooth the fabric down again. "Hey." 

"Hey yourself." You can't see his face, but he sounds sleepy as he wraps his arms around your shoulders from behind, pressing a kiss to your neck. "You should see your face." 

"I can feel it, so..." 

"Do we need to go pay Jane a quick visit now, then?" 

He shouldn't need to sound so concerned over you, and you're instantly guilty. "No." 

"It'd only take a bit—" 

"Nothing's broken. Just sore." 

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Jake, I'm sure." You shrug and tip your head back to look at him, reaching up to straighten his glasses on his nose. "This isn't even that bad." 

"I'd hate to see you when you'll admit it _is_ bad," he says dryly. "If I go in the kitchen, am I going to find food, or should I just save myself the trouble and go shopping now?" 

"There's food, I promise." Mostly because Dave comes over occasionally, and the one time you didn't have food he very nearly punched you. You've never been on the receiving end of that kind of scolding, not before or since, and you don't intend to make him that upset again. "Everything's edible except maybe the yogurt in the fridge; Roxy brought that two or three weeks ago." 

Jake's nose crinkles up and he makes a face. "Dirk. That's horrible." 

"Well, it doesn't smell bad." He slides off the bed and offers you a hand, and you let him pull you to your feet. 

"Have you _opened_ it?" 

"No." 

"...let's not do that." 

"Probably smart." 

Jake snorts and leads you to the kitchen, letting go of your hand so he can dig in your fridge. You boost yourself up to sit on the counter and watch him. 

After a second he pulls out the tub of yogurt, grimacing at you as he shakes it gently. (It utterly fails to make any kind of noise.) "This goes in the trash." 

"Definitely." 

"You need to not keep that sort of thing, love." Jake shakes his head and drops the yogurt into the garbage, hunting around some more until he comes out with a container of mac and cheese left over from last night. "Will you eat some of this if I heat it up?" 

"...maybe." You're honestly unsure if you want to do that, really. "Probably. You should do it." 

He nods and takes the lid off, putting it in the microwave. When the timer goes off he takes it out, retrieving two forks and hopping up to sit next to you, taking a bite before setting the container on the counter between you. "What if I stayed here?" 

Okay, that's an incentive to take a bite, just so you don't have to answer that. It actually tastes better the second day. Interesting. 

"Dirk." 

Well, he isn't going to let you evade. 

"You don't want to do that, Jake." 

"You're still not a mind reader." He rolls his eyes and takes another forkful of food. "Why wouldn't I want to? Do _you_ not want me to?" 

"I'm a fucking mess." 

"More reason for me to be around." 

You sigh and poke at the mac and cheese for a minute, trying to sort out your feelings about this. _If you stay, Jake, you will see exactly how much of a mess I really am. You will realize that I am, in fact, disgusting, and eventually you will walk away, because if there's one thing I know, it's that I'm very fucking hateable. After all, I hate myself, and I've been around me more than anyone else._

Instead of saying that, you repeat yourself. "I'm a fucking _mess._ " 

"You're _my_ fucking mess," Jake points out, setting his fork down so he can pull you to face him and putting one hand on the back of your head, pulling you forward so he can bump his forehead gently against yours. "You trust me. Do you trust me?" 

You do, but... "You're using your Hope powers on me, aren't you." 

"Just a smidge. Is it making things hurt less?" 

"You're supposed to ask first." 

"You _want_ to hurt. You'd say no." 

He's right. You sigh and slowly relax against him, feeling warmth spread out from your contact with him. It's nice, even if you feel guilty about the fact that he's doing it. "...Jake?" 

"Yes?" 

"I trust you." You have to think before you say the next word. "Stay." 

"Excellent." His hand finds yours, squeezes gently. "I love you, alright?" 

This one, you don't have to think about. "Love you too."


End file.
